A Gift to Remember

by Melissa Hill

  ‘Oh no, I really don’t think—’ Darcy protested, but before she knew it she was being helped into a robe by one therapist and the other was determinedly leading her onto a treatment chair.

  ‘Perhaps a manicure, madam?’ the therapist suggested, pointedly eyeing her bitten-down nails. Darcy, who had never even used a nail file in her life and was terrified of the prospect of any kind of ‘treatment’, instinctively shrank away.

  ‘I’m fine, honestly.’

  ‘Don’t you realise how difficult it is to get an appointment here?’ Tabitha interjected sharply. ‘I wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth if I were you,’ she added, her tone ominous enough that Darcy felt she had to relent.

  Unsure what to expect – to say nothing of how much this ordeal was going to cost – she had to fight not to hold her breath when the therapist asked her to sit forward and then proceeded to dip her hands in some kind of solution.

  Relax, Darcy, she urged herself – it’s not like you’re having a pap smear. Though right at the moment she figured that, given the choice, she might well opt for one instead; she truly had no idea what she was facing here. Though, seeing as women all over the world chose to have such a procedure on a regular basis, it couldn’t be that scary, could it? She’d just never been into all that kind of stuff.

  The truth was that Darcy hated feeling out of control and was always much happier keeping within the confines of her own little world, where nothing terribly out of the ordinary could happen. Much better to keep such surprises restricted to within the pages of a book.

  ‘Wonderful.’ Tabitha Kensington seemed satisfied that she was willing to join in the fun. ‘So then, tell me what’s so important that you needed to gate-crash my facial today?’

  Trying not to wince at both Tabitha’s tone and the therapist coming at her with nail clippers, Darcy began telling the socialite all about the accident and how her path and Aidan’s had crossed. In keeping with the low-key mood of the room, everyone remained scarily silent as she talked, and Darcy instinctively spoke in hushed tones as if confessing something, while throughout it all, Tabitha appeared unmoved.

  Eventually wrapping up the story, Darcy turned to look at her, hoping for a reaction. Tabitha’s eyebrows were indeed raised under her mud mask.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Nice story, but I’m still in the dark as to exactly how I tie into this tale.’

  Darcy smiled pleasantly – at least as much as she could while the therapist squeezed her fingers agonisingly hard while pushing back her cuticles. She wondered if the woman had worked as a torture specialist in another life. ‘Yes, I was just getting to that part. So the poor guy asked me to go to his house and check it out – see if I could find anything that might help him there. And well . . .’ Saying it out loud, Darcy realised this part sounded a bit iffy. ‘I went to the house, found a few things that I thought might help and then checked his caller ID – just in case anyone was missing his absence. Your number, or rather the telephone number of your house, was on it.’

  Darcy stopped talking and took a tentative sip of the camomile tea that had appeared in front of her as if by magic. She returned her gaze to Tabitha, who was now staring at her blankly. Darcy felt even more unnerved; she couldn’t read anything in her stare.

  ‘You said that my number was on this guy’s caller ID?’

  ‘Yes,’ Darcy nodded, hoping that she wasn’t guilty of something. Though she supposed she was past that point a long time ago. She decided to provide additional clarification. ‘So I called the number earlier today, and spoke to somebody there who mentioned that you . . . might be here this afternoon.’ She purposely didn’t mention Maria’s name for fear of getting her in trouble. ‘She also informed me that your husband is in Europe just now so I’m assuming it wasn’t he who called the house.’

  ‘What did you say your friend’s name was again?’

  Darcy frowned, because she was pretty sure that she had already mentioned it many times already.

  ‘Aidan Harris. He lives off Central Park West, in the Upper Seventies?’

  Tabitha’s brow furrowed under her clay mask. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I really can’t help you. I have absolutely no idea who Aidan Harris is.’

  Chapter 17

  After saying hello to the receptionist at Christie’s, I was led to an office at the rear of the building by another woman who told me, very nicely, that I could wait until one of the managers was able to meet with me. I was sure I wouldn’t be waiting too long; Christie’s didn’t make anyone with a chequebook like mine wait around.

  I deposited myself in a chair and the woman offered me a drink. I told her that black coffee would be wonderful and as she left, I felt momentarily guilty that I had not asked what her name was. I hated only to think of someone as a member of the ‘support staff’. It was important to call the people you worked with and who helped you by the name their parents gave them. Or at least the name they wanted to be known by. After all, some parents had crap taste in naming children. I once knew a couple who had called their kid ‘Leia’ after the princess in Star Wars. Mel told me she knew a girl at school whose name was ‘Aquanette’ like the hairspray. Not surprising that these days, the girl insisted on being called ‘Etta’. Smart move.

  As I waited for my coffee, I looked around the office. It was a nice room, tastefully decorated with a few focal pieces scattered about. There was a Matisse on the wall and a vase on a stand in the corner. I looked closer at the vase and identified it as dating from the Ming Dynasty. I smiled, wondering what my father would think if he could see me now, and laughing a little at the notion that life had changed so much that I could now pinpoint things like that on sight. It was a long, long way from O’Connell Street, that’s for sure.

  I settled back in my chair and thought about taking out my phone again, if only to touch base once more with Mel. But I knew she had a busy day today, and she would more than likely be tied up if I did text her, so I decided to do the next best thing, and look at her beautiful face instead.

  Selecting the gallery, I smiled as I scrolled to the photos – happy memories taken over the last few weeks once she’d laughingly shown me how to work the camera function on the new iPhone.

  I had to admit, it had been a good year all round – better than the one before, certainly. But we seemed to have got over the worst of that now and these days she was feeling secure and happy and back to her old self again.

  A huge relief, as the last thing I’d ever want to do was make her unhappy.

  Still, I think we both appreciated that sometimes life just didn’t work out how you planned it and as much as I enjoyed my own company, I also lived to spend time with her as often as was possible.

  I looked at the pictures – snaps I’d taken in a variety of places at different times and moods. In all of them though, her blonde hair floated about her smiling face.

  There was one of her, grinning and dancing around the edge of the Bethesda fountain in the Park. Another of her on top of a wooden horse at the carousel – again in the Park. She was wearing the kind of ‘bursting’ expression she had when she was working to suppress laughter, but failing miserably.

  Before I could reminisce any more, the door of the office opened behind me and a man I recognised walked in. The younger woman following behind carried a silver tray. Even though I had told her that I take my coffee black, I’m sure there was something in the Christie’s operational handbook that said you couldn’t give a guest a simple cup of coffee and instead you must break out the fine china.

  I accepted the cup that she poured for me and appreciated her efforts, but at the same time, I’m a paper cup kind of fellow and happy as long as the coffee is hot and fresh.

  Before I could say anything other than thank you, or even ask the woman her name, the man in charge here, a guy by the name of George Stafford, cleared his throat, took a sip of his own coffee – cream, sugar – and sat back in his chair.

  ‘Mr Harris, it’s
so nice to see you again. I trust that you are doing well?’

  I nodded and said I was, but thinking of Bailey waiting on the cold street outside I decided to dispense with the niceties and stay on task. When I extended my query to George, he nodded and said that he had already been briefed on what I was looking for.

  ‘Of course, it’s not that something of this nature cannot be procured . . .’ I nodded but raised my eyebrows, waiting for the inevitable ‘but’. ‘However, I must ask. Are you sure this particular edition is exactly what you are looking for?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ I responded. ‘Is there a reason you ask?’

  George pursed his lips. ‘Well, the fact is, we had an auction just a month ago, during which we sold that very one.’

  Dammit.

  I ran a hand through my hair. If I had known I wanted it a month ago, I would have done something about it then. Except that I didn’t and it was more of a last-minute idea. Impulsive, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was whether or not I could get it – and most importantly, get it in time for the big day.

  ‘Do you think that the person who bought it at the auction would be willing to sell again?’

  George grimaced. ‘Unlikely. This individual is a serious collector, and had been in the market for this for quite some time.’

  I exhaled, disappointed. ‘OK, well, what are my other options, do you think? There has to be a solution. I know it’s a long shot, but there must be a willing seller out there somewhere. Isn’t there always?’

  George nodded thoughtfully. ‘I would normally agree that yes, a seller can usually be found. However, I am also keenly aware of your deadline. Mr Harris, you know I appreciate your business and I certainly appreciate the fact that your company is such a loyal patron. But I’m sure you also realise that it is nearing the end of December. People are getting ready to go to St Barts or St Tropez, if they are not there already. Anyone with the ability to help you is probably not going to be available for such a transaction, at least not until after the New Year.’

  I knew what he was telling me. That anyone who had the ability to sell me something like this was already on their yacht. But at the same time, I also knew that there were plenty of jet-setters who still stuck around for the holidays.

  I wasn’t going to give up that easily. Too much was riding on it.

  ‘Well George, I struggle to believe that there are no options at all,’ I said in my most unnerving tone. The tone that usually bade people into doing what I asked. ‘Especially when I am ready to spend this kind of money. So what else can be done?’

  George took a deep breath and locked eyes with me, understanding that I was truly serious about this. ‘Well,’ he began hesitantly, ‘I suppose there is the possibility of . . . a list.’

  I nodded. A list was good. ‘What kind of list?’ I encouraged. ‘Tell me more.’

  George seemed to be carefully considering his next words. ‘Christie’s aren’t directly involved in such transactions, but we do know that there are items being bought and sold privately. We are often kept abreast of many of those sales, simply because it is good business practice to keep an eye on such things – especially for our most valued customers.’ He paused, laying it on thick, and I waited. ‘As such I have a private list of collectors situated in the New York area who may have the item you seek.’

  ‘Excellent,’ I said, heartened. ‘So can you reach out to these people on my behalf?’

  ‘Well, firstly, Mr Harris, as I said, we very much appreciate you as a client. And secondly, we don’t normally reach out to collectors, not unless we understand that they are seriously considering selling. I’m sure I don’t have to tell a man such as yourself that these are people who don’t like to be solicited unannounced. They aren’t exactly running eBay auctions, if you catch my drift.’

  I smiled. If only it were possible to find something like this on eBay, I would have done it already.

  ‘I see,’ I said, indeed catching his drift. ‘So are you suggesting I should approach them myself?’

  ‘Yes. If you promise to keep this exchange quiet, I would be happy to turn over such information to you. I can’t guarantee anything will come from it, as I’m naturally not au fait with the particulars of each collection, but at least it may point you in the right direction for the future. Like I said, your deadline is a little . . . unrealistic.’

  I nodded. I got it. I had waited too long to do this and now I might be screwed.

  ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Let’s go ahead and we’ll see what happens, won’t we?’

  Seemingly satisfied, George stood up and promised that he would return very soon. I sat back in my chair and thought that at least I would not be leaving Christie’s empty-handed. Granted I hadn’t expected it would be easy, but at least I now had something else to go on.

  When George finally returned about ten minutes later, he was carrying a folder. He rounded his desk and once again sat down. Opening the folder, he looked at me, seemed to be considering something in his own mind, and then said, ‘I trust you understand that this information is strictly confidential.’ He pushed the folder across the desk.

  ‘Of course I understand,’ I told him. I picked up the folder but refrained from opening it. I didn’t want to spook George by appearing over-eager. Instead, I needed to say something to allow him to rest easy.

  ‘You can trust me,’ I said. ‘And this is for a good cause, I promise. No one will know how I came by this information and I will not even breathe Christie’s name when I speak to these people.’ I stood, thanked him and shook his hand.

  Leaving his office, I pulled my phone from my pocket and asked Siri to remind me to get George a gift for his trouble. Going back out front I looked around for the receptionist, wanting to thank her, but she was nowhere to be seen, so I went out into the street.

  Bailey was sitting up on his haunches, as if he knew I was going to appear right at that moment. I untied his leash as he looked up at me, silently questioning me over what had happened and what might be happening next. I checked my watch. It was late afternoon, but there was still time to get started on this right away. After all, time was of the essence.

  ‘All right, Bailey,’ I told him. ‘Let’s head home. I need to make some phone calls and I’m guessing you could do with some chow.’

  He wagged his tail happily as we set off back towards home. As we walked, I opened the folder that George had given me and looked at the single sheet of paper that it contained. I recognised some of the names on the list.

  There were six of them and they all possessed – or at least had possessed at one point – exactly what I was looking for.

  The question was: would any of them be willing to part with it?

  Chapter 18

  The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes. Arthur Conan Doyle

  Even though Darcy spent the next few minutes with Tabitha Kensington, trying to piece together the reason why her home phone number might been on Aidan Harris’s caller ID, they were unable to figure it out.

  Despite Darcy’s original fears about the socialite being some kind of monstrous lioness, Tabitha had actually turned out to be more of a pussy-cat. Not only did she insist on paying for Darcy’s (hellish) manicure, but she was also kind enough to check through her cell-phone contact list trying to find anyone of that name, or a female friend or acquaintance who on the off-chance shared Aidan’s surname.

  In much the same way that Aidan too had turned her perception of wealthy New Yorkers on its head, Tabitha’s generosity was proving to Darcy yet again that appearances and reputation could so often be deceptive.

  ‘I’m sorry that I couldn’t be of more help, really I am,’ Tabitha said in conclusion. ‘I guess it’s always possible that someone at my home might know him. I have a large staff, so I could ask around, check with my assistant?’ she offered.

  Darcy gave a half-hearted smile. She certainly appreciated the other woman’s kindness, but she doub
ted that it would have been one of the ‘staff’ – especially as Aidan seemed to be on the same level society-wise as the Kensingtons. She couldn’t understand how they didn’t seem to know each other; she’d thought that all the New York glitterati flocked together and moved throughout the same circles. But maybe that was another assumption that simply wasn’t true.

  At the same time, she doubted that Aidan would be hanging out with Tabitha’s housekeeper or butler, or whatever profession wealthy people like her employed to run their households.

  Even so, she remained polite. ‘That would be great, Mrs Kensington. I’d really appreciate it, Aidan too.’

  ‘Please call me Tabitha.’ The socialite gave a warm smile and her clay mask cracked just a little around her mouth. ‘Of course, it’s also possible that someone simply misdialled. Have you thought of that?’

  Darcy admitted that the thought had crossed her mind. But the Kensington number had been the only phone call logged on Aidan’s machine, outside of the private number that his stood-up date must have been calling from. It just didn’t make sense. She was sure there had to be a connection.

  Unless she was once again guilty of judging a book by its cover? Maybe Aidan was involved with someone on the Kensington staff. There was certainly no rule to say that people needed to date within the same social class or circle, and knowing Aidan and how down to earth he seemed to be, it was as much of a possibility as anything else.

  One thing Darcy did know for sure was that if he did happen to be involved with one of Tabitha’s staff, it certainly wasn’t Maria, given how unmoved she’d been throughout Darcy’s earlier phone call and explanation of Aidan’s condition.

  Having exchanged phone numbers with her, Darcy bade Tabitha goodbye and once again apologised for interrupting her spa day. Tabitha had promised to have her assistant get in touch if she discovered anything, and in closing, made Darcy swear that she would not tell anyone, like a reporter from Page Six, that she had seen her in the state she was. Namely, clay mask on, face off. Darcy assured her that she wouldn’t utter a single word.